Aleck was a long time getting well. He had to be nursed and taken care of all through that winter, only gradually making little steps towards recovery.
It was quite a festival when he was first carried down-stairs; and then again when he was taken out in the carriage for a drive, lying at full length upon a sort of couch which we erected for him, and to which he declared, in my anxiety to make him comfortable, I had contributed all the sofa cushions in the house.
The subject of the lost ship was forbidden for a long while; and I grew to thinking of it as a sort of formidable undertaking, though one upon which I was firmly bent—the confession to Aleck himself of my guilt in the matter.
But when at last I was permitted to approach the subject, I could only feel surprised that I had been for so long afraid of it. Aleck received my confession so quietly, instead of getting angry, and spoke so kindly and gently, that I could scarcely believe it was the same Aleck whose look of fiery indignation on that eventful morning of the 20th of September had so startled me.
In one way, indeed, he was not the same; for the accident, and illness consequent on it, seemed in some peculiar manner to have rendered him far more lovable and thoughtful than he had been formerly; a trifle graver, perhaps—at least I thought so, until, when he grew quite strong again, his merry laugh would ring out as cheerily as ever—and more serious in his way of looking at things, but not less happy. That I was sure of; for all through the long weeks of confinement there was not a brighter place in the house than the place at the side of his couch—he was so uniformly cheerful, and seemed so thoroughly to enjoy every little plan that we were able to form for his amusement.
I told him I was quite surprised that he received my confession so gently; it would have been so natural if he had got angry. I remember his answer very well:—
"Why, you see, Willie, it seems quite a little thing to me now. I don't think I can exactly put what I mean into words; but you know when I thought I was dying, and eternity seemed quite near, everything else seemed so little—only, the wrong words I had used to you seemed much worse than I had thought they could. Old George's words came back to me so often, about the loss of the ship being a very little thing; whilst wrong words and angry feelings would appear more terrible than we ever fancied possible. I was dreadfully frightened until I felt quite sure I was forgiven. You can't think how glad I was when I got your message."
"I wanted to tell you," I said, "when I came into your room that time; but I couldn't speak, though I nearly choked in trying to stop crying."
"Well since then," resumed Aleck, "the feeling doesn't seem to have gone off. I don't mean I don't care for things, because you know I like everything very much—our games, and the books, and madrepores; but I feel as if before my accident God and heaven and the Bible were all being put by, and got ready, for the time when one was old and grown up, and I've felt so different since then. It was when I felt so frightened at the thought of what a naughty boy I was, and of all the bad things I had done, and began to tell Jesus about it—in my heart, you know, for I couldn't speak—and remembered he was so good and kind he never turned any one away, and so felt sure he had heard me, that I began to think so differently."
At this point of Aleck's narration I broke in impetuously with—